


You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet

by carrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bookstore Clerk!Castiel, Child psychiatrist!Dean, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrose/pseuds/carrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been on Dean's case about how antisocial he's been since he and Benny split up, only leaving his apartment to go to his job as a child psychiatrist. But then again, Sam doesn't know about Dean's weekends spying on the hot bookstore clerk in town. *Later chapters may warrant a rating change*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Damn bullies_ , he curses to himself, turning off the standing lamp in the corner of the small room. He next moves to the coffee table seated in front of the couch, replacing the empty tissue box with a full one out of the supply closet. When he goes over his notes and can't think of anything to add after looking them over, he closes the pad with a resigned sigh and shoulders his bag, leaving the office and telling the receptionist to have a good night.

"See you on Monday, Dr. Winchester," she answers, a phone still pressed to her ear. 

He's still troubled as he walks; Jessie is a good kid. A bit antisocial, a little shy, but a good kid. He wants to find those other brats and whoop their asses for being such little dicks. And then maybe find their parents and knock them around too, for raising such monsters.

When he slides onto the bench seat of his car, a 1967 Chevrolet Impala (which may or may not be his pride and joy), the leather seems to leech the tension from his shoulders, letting him relax against the seat. The rapid drum beats of the song he'd been listening to on his way to the psychiatric firm do just what he needs them to, pulling him out of his head and reminding him that it's the weekend.

There are less than ten miles between the office and his apartment, but he takes the long way, keeping the music up and the windows down. It was supposed to have changed to Fall already, but the nights have stayed unseasonably warm and Dean revels in the warm breeze as it ruffles his tie through the window.

After half an hour, he's had his fill of the evening air and he parks in the garage underneath his apartment building. The echoing silence inside the concrete structure never fails to creep him the fuck out on late nights, the shadows in the corners too dark and the glow from the artificial lights too stark. He shakes off the chills that threaten to climb up his back when he gets out of the car and makes his way up the three flights of stairs to get to his place.

He's settled into the couch with his favorite brand of beer and an awesome Indian Jones marathon, his button up, tie, and slacks replaced with sweats and an old t-shirt, when his phone nearly vibrates off the coffee table.

He groans, willing it to stop with a hard glare. When it persists, he surrenders and bends forward to place it by his ear, smirking when he sees the name on the display.

"The party you have reached is no longer in service, please hang up and try ag-," he's made it through most of his awesome recording impression before Sam interrupts him impatiently.

"Hang up, my ass. It's hard enough to get you to answer in the first place."

"Well, here I am. Is there something you needed, Sammy?" Dean takes another gulp of his beer, baring his teeth when they contact the too-cold liquid.

Sam sighs on the other end of the line, the sound practically dripping with exasperation. "It's Friday? September eighteenth?" He asks like the words are supposed to mean something. "You said you'd come see the new place. Is any of this ringing a single bell?" Dean can imagine what face Sam is pulling now, those expressive eyebrows pulled together and his mouth in a pout.

There's a vague familiarity to the words, although Dean doubts he ever actually agreed to anything Sam proposed. There'd probably been some prodding, then a vague answer on Dean's part. His brother may be a lawyer, but that didn't mean shit when Dean knows the kid better than he knows himself. He knows how to keep from making promises he doesn't intend to keep.

"Not really," he finally answers. "Sorry, Sam. Can't tonight. Got lots on my plate right now." He sifts through the excuses he's used lately, deciding to use a work problem if Sam pushes any harder.

"That's bull and you know it, Dean," Sam is undoubtedly shaking his head in disappointment right about now.

Dean decides to play dumb; "What do you mean? I got this kid in this week and he's a mystery. I gotta do some research before I can help him." Dean's face is scrunched up, praying that Sam buys it. Or, you know, doesn't buy it but lets it drop all the same.

Fortunately, before Sam can call him on his shit, Dean hears a knock at his front door. "Oh, crap. Someone's here. Gotta go, Sam." He hangs up before his brother can get a word in, wrenching the door open out of sheer thankfulness for having a way out of his conversation.

Sam glares back at him in the doorway, the cell in his hand still next to his ear. Without a word, he pockets his phone and pushes past Dean into the cramped room. He ignores Dean's dropped jaw and his rare lack of a smart comment.

Dean warily watches his brother examine the room, not missing how Sam's eyes seem to stick on the open beer on the coffee table and on the muted television. He knows the words that are coming before they leave Sam's mouth.

"Getting lots of research done, huh?" It's hard to miss the disappointment present in Sam's face, but Dean avoids his gaze, focusing instead on the silent, whip-slinging Harrison Ford in the corner of the room.

He slaps on a smile and faces his brother, "This kid Jessie is obsessed with fedoras. Just tryin' to understand." Sam's face doesn't change to reflect entertainment, even with the wink Dean sticks on at the end of his sentence, not that he expected it to. The kid's always been pretty damn stubborn.

Sam rubs one of his giant hands across his face, a sign that he's giving up. Dean itches to get back to his movie and the comfortable spot on his couch. "When's the last time you went out somewhere besides work?" Sam holds eye contact, daring Dean to lie or look away, both instances, in which, would not go unnoticed by his brother.

"I go out all the time!" Which isn't exactly a lie. He wasn't sure how many people would consider "once a week" the same as "all the time". "Get off my back, Sammy."

Sam had been checking in on him more and more lately, which was no small feat considering how hard Dean made it for him to get in touch.

"Fine. Where do you go out?" Sam prods, his eyes narrow with disbelief.

Dean thinks about the merits of lying versus telling the truth, both of which probably won't end well. He finally decides on the latter. "I visit the bookstore, okay? I've been reading a lot lately." He chooses to leave out the part about the hot bookstore clerk he goes to spy on from behind the mystery novel section. He quickly regrets his honesty when that understanding, puppy-dog look lights up Sam's face.

"I know it's hard, Dean. But you can't hunker down by yourself to avoid getting hurt again by someone like Benny-"

"Stop right-the-fuck there, Sam!" He's not going to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. And not with that pitying look on his little brother's face.

"Dammit, Dean. You're a psychiatrist. You of all people know this isn't healthy." He has a point. Dean has realized his behavior is not what he would recommend to his patients in the same situation. But the whole "practice what you preach thing" has never been super high on his list of priorities.

He's determined to move on despite the truth to Sam's words. "So you wanna keep doing my job? Or do you want a beer?" He raises his eyebrows, leaving his mouth in a hard line, daring Sam to push him further.

Instead of answering, Sam saunters into the kitchen, fetching a beer for himself and twisting the top off.

"Good choice."

...

It's sweet that Sam is showing such concern for him. Sweet and agonizingly annoying. But he doesn't want his brother to worry about him. A full work load as a lawyer and all the stress that puts on him is more than enough. He isn't gonna be an extra thing for his kid brother to brood about. After all, it's always been his job to take care of Sammy. Not the other way around.

So that's how he finds himself out on a Saturday, missing his apartment and his solitary beers, awkwardly standing in the kitchen of the condo Sam and his girlfriend Jess had bought months before (and he had still yet to see in person). There's a little too many rooms and too much space, at least more than Dean thinks necessary, but maybe that's what they want; maybe they plan on having some kids running around it soon. He realizes, with a start, that he has no idea if he's right or not, and immediately regrets blowing Sam's calls off so much.

To make up for his horrible brother-ing lately, Dean feigns interest in the pictures lining the wall opposite the oven, all candids of Sam and Jess and what Dean assumes to be their friends. "Where was this one taken?"

He listens dutifully, like the trip they took to Chicago is more interesting than it is. He even hangs around for the rest of the day, agreeing to go out to dinner with them and barely complaining about the expensive restaurant they decide on.

By the time Dean gets home, he's exhausted. And talked out. All of the limited patience he has for social interaction is long gone. A thought in which Sam would probably point out as ironic, given how Dean talks to multiple patients all day during the week. He'd argue that he doesn't really talk much, he's more of a neutral listener that people can choose to confide in and ask for suggestions on how to deal with everything life throws at them. Which can be pretty crappy stuff.

He strips off his tie and dress shirt, dropping his slacks with little ceremony, falling onto the bed in his boxers and undershirt, too wiped to bother with checking his messages or brushing his teeth.

...

He's able to sleep past ten, which is pretty unusual for him lately. He usually spends at least a few hours tossing and turning after sliding under his sheets, and then he's up before the sun without the aid of an alarm. Maybe Sam does have a point with all this "being social" stuff. He may be able to get on board if it means he can get more than his usual five hours of sleep.

But his oversleeping means that he has absolutely no time to lounge about and make a home-cooked breakfast if he wants to make it into town on time. He considers the merits of eating a quick bowl of cereal before he decides that he's pushing it. Then he slips into his favorite pair of jeans and an old, worn t-shirt before he's out the door and flying down the garage stairwell to get to the Impala.

He usually walks to the bookstore, so he gets there in a matter of minutes, and he relaxes visibly when he glances at the clock. He has at least a half hour to creep in the Vonnegut section with a perfect view of the check stand near the front of the store.

When he gets inside, wincing at the loud bell at the door, he quickly glances to confirm, that yes, the mop-haired hottie is still on his shift, and yes, he's wearing his tie in that crooked fashion that Dean has always considered endearing.

He's behind his most familiar shelf of hardbacks before he really takes him in, and he's surprised, as always, at how relaxed and upbeat the man looks, despite having to work early and deal with customers on a Sunday morning. He pretends to read the backs of books while he cranes his neck around the side of the aisle, smiling as he watches Castiel (according to the name tag he'd spotted a few weeks ago), whose entire face scrunches up in a ridiculously cute way whenever he has to type into the computer to find a certain book for a customer.

Dean waits until he knows Castiel only has five minutes left on his shift before he'll miss him, then he finds an inexpensive book and gets in line behind the woman Castiel is already helping.

The woman gives the man a bit of grief when he informs her that they don't carry the book that she wants, at least not without sending out for it and waiting for it to ship. She ends up huffing off without placing an order and Dean approaches the counter hesitantly.

Castiel doesn't smile completely at his approach, but one of the corners of his mouth does quirk up and his eyebrows jump up his forehead. Dean's sure that he must recognize him by this point and he's pretty sure his cheeks are red from the realization.

"How can I help you today, sir?" the man asks, his sparkling blue eyes suggesting that he knows the exact effect that he has on Dean.

Dean pushes through his embarrassment and faces it head on, calling attention to his many visits before the other man has a chance. "Why don't you just call me Dean? Shouldn't we be on a first name basis now..." He looks at the tag clipped to his shirt as if it were the first time and continues, "Castiel?"

Castiel is smiling now, that smile that makes him feel like Dean's his favorite person, though he's probably only seen him about ten times in total. "Alright, Dean," he gently removes the paperback from Dean's outstretched arm, "what are we reading this week?" Luckily Castiel reads the spine instead of relying on Dean to remember the title he'd scanned only moments ago.

Castiel's eyebrows raise on his forehead when he reads the title and sweat breaks out on the back of Dean's neck with the reaction. "Have you read Burgess' work before?" Dean figures lying will just blow up in his face, so he shakes his head slowly, letting his scrutiny show in his squinted eyes.

"Should I be worried?" He asks honestly.

Castiel laughs at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his teeth fully visible, "I wouldn't say that, but you definitely have to tell me what you think of it when you're done." Dean doesn't reply for a moment, so Castiel speaks again, "You're skeptical."

Now Dean's the one chuckling, his breath airy. "Of course I'm skeptical! I feel like I'm about to read about drowning kittens or something!" His response brings back that lopsided grin, and Dean is sad when it disappears when Cas replies.

"I promise you, no kittens are drown-" Cas thinks for a moment. "Yes, no kittens are drowned in it. Wanted to be sure."

"Wow, that sure helps," Dean comments sarcastically, but with a grin. He suddenly realizes a few people have gathered behind him, and he's now holding up a line. He's embarrassed but he dismisses it when it seems Castiel hasn't noticed either.

But the man behind him is tapping his foot impatiently, so Dean reluctantly clears his throat and says "I guess I should let these fine people buy their books," as he motions over his shoulder with his thumb. Cas seems to notice the people behind him, at last, and busies himself by scanning the book's code and bagging it for him. Dean slides his credit card and reaches for the paper bag.

Cas holds onto the bag as Dean tries to grab hold, causing him to pause. "Like I said, let me know how you like it." He then adopts a more business-like tone and continues: "Now have a good day, sir."

Dean smiles as he replies, "You too, Cas." He doesn't realize he's shortened the man's name until he sees his left eyebrow quirk up ever-so-slightly. He wants to apologize but the restless man behind him pushes past him to claim Castiel's attention.

Dean waits until he's outside and in his car before he beats himself up for the name slip. Watch Cas- _Castiel_ get all offended by the informality so Dean can't stalk him on the weekends anymore. Dean groans inwardly and pushes the thought as far from his mind as he can. Ignoring uncomfortable memories and thoughts was something he'd gotten pretty good at.


	2. Chapter 2

            When he drags himself out of bed on Monday morning after fighting with his alarm clock, he finds a text from Sam, _big surprise._

**We had fun on Sat. Wanna do it again this weekend?**

            He's tempted, _God is he tempted_ , to ignore the message and force himself to get in the shower, but the use of the word "we” reminds him how far behind he is on his brother's life events, which in turn makes him remember his promise to be one less thing for said brother to worry about. He taps out a quick reply.

            **Sure. But this time I pick where we eat**

            He knows his brother. He knows that once he realizes Dean is still his normal self and not slipping into life-altering depression or isolation, he'll leave him alone. Well, maybe that’s asking a lot, but at least he won't be badgering him every five minutes on how he spends his free time.

            Pleased by his good deed, he awards himself an extra-long shower. So long, in fact, that he barely has time to find some clothes to throw on and brush his teeth and he has to forgo an awesome home-cooked breakfast. Again.

            He speeds to work, like he usually does, and he narrowly makes it in time for his 7 o' clock appointment. Violet, a twelve year old with a bubbly personality who always wears mismatched socks, is bouncing up and down in her chair in the waiting room when he steps through the door. Her parents' divorce had been pretty hard on her and he'd had to have the ex-couple in to tell them to stop putting her in the middle of their arguments when he'd first started seeing her. He expects this will be one of her last meetings with him and he'd be lying if he said he isn’t going to miss the little ball of energy. But he’s glad she’s finally gotten back to her normal, energetic self.

            The day is a whirl of talking about feelings and at one point, Dean even gets out the play-doh when Erik refuses to talk about his recently-dead dog. Kelsea, the oldest patient of the day (in eighth grade), decides Dean’s mocking her when he asks a slightly-touchy question, it turns out. Two of the kids start yelling, four of them cry at some point, and when Dean says farewell to the last child of the day, he is _so_ ready to go home and play sick for the rest of the week.

            He drives around the city for a whole two hours in order to unwind and get back in a normal state of mind. When he’s pointed back in the direction of his apartment, finally resigning himself to going home to bed early, he makes an out-of-character decision. There’s a coffee shop he’s never been in but it looks pretty empty and therefore safe to check out. He fishes the book he’d bought at the book store the day before from under his jacket in the passenger seat. He’s thankful for the lack of a bell on the door when he pushes the door open and he walks up to the counter to buy something and earn his keep for the next hour at least.

            A black coffee later, poured by the very bored looking hipster with a bar through his eyebrow, he claims the corner booth with his back to the wall and a perfect view of the whole shop. The business man two tables away and a couple looking deeply into each other’s eyes over their chai lattes near the opposite wall pay no attention to him so he can easily slouch in his chair and lose himself in his new book.

            He hates the main character, like really hates him. He’s a kid with shitty friends who makes even shittier decisions. Beginning with stealing cars and going as far as to rape women in front of their husbands. He makes it to when Alex is in prison and the little fucker hates it and he thinks he might finally get what he deserves when the sound of the man behind the counter cleaning the machines snaps him out of his reveries. A quick look at his watch reveals that it’s past ten and he hurries to exit the now-empty shop. His mind is sluggish as he climbs into his car and drives home, his mind still on the pages of the story and finding it hard to focus on the laundry and cleaning he’s got to do when he gets there.

            He’s still thinking about it when he gets into bed. He marvels about why in the hell anyone would make their main character such a dick. Castiel’s gonna get an earful if Alex gets out of this book alive.

            He dreams of operas and face masks and driving down the highway, and when he wakes up he almost forgets where he is. He’s wistful over the feeling of the open road, but he stops that train of thought before it can begin. He busies himself with getting ready and prepares himself for a day of listening and note-taking.

…

            When the weekend rolls around, he’s thoroughly confused. Alex doesn’t die in the end of the book, and he doesn’t get why that’s okay with him. This kid did horrible, terrible things to people and somehow he comes out on top and Dean finds himself identifying with him. He’d spent two more nights at the new-found coffee shop on James Street and found it kind of difficult to put the book down. He hopes it doesn’t become a habit and he starts being one of those people who spends all their extra cash on their caffeine addiction daily. He considers texting Sam to ask him to punch him if he ever sees him order a latte or cappuccino or anything with the words “low-fat” in them.

            Dean skips the dress shirt and tie before heading to Sam’s, he’s picking the restaurant so he needn’t worry about meeting a dress code. Still, he slides on his _nicer_ jeans so Jess doesn’t see him for the total slob he is. At least not right away.

            When they’re all out on the porch after dinner at Sam’s place with beers, Dean’s a bit surprised because he had Jess pegged as a wine-drinker, he can’t help asking his intellectual brother about the frustrations on his mind. Plus, it never hurts to remind the kid that he’s not a total caveman, despite his love for movies and his rare interest in politics.

            He waits for a lull in the conversation before he asks. “Hey, Sammy. You ever read ‘A Clockwork Orange’?” He notes the familiarity in Sam’s face and he thinks he’s going to get some answers before Sam responds.

            “I haven’t read it but I’ve heard about it. Why?” _And_ , his heart falls. He was kind of hoping to have at least a bit of a handle on it before discussing it with Cas _-tiel_ so he doesn’t come off as a total idiot.

            “No reason. Never mind.” Sam surprisingly lets it go at that and their conversation moves along to other topics.

            By Sunday morning, Dean’s ready to demand answers. So much so, that he doesn’t waste any time searching for another book and stalking the checkout counter before he trudges up to it, admittedly impatient.

            “What the hell was this even about?” He practically growls at the woman behind the counter, before realizing that, yep, Cas didn’t recently grow breasts, and yep, that’s Cas giggling at him from behind the aisle where he’s stocking books.

            Despite the redness that is absolutely flooding his face, he manages to apologize to the startled woman and stalk over to Castiel, who seems to have recovered his composure. At least he’s laughing and not glaring at him. Clearly the name-slip hadn’t been as big of a deal as Dean made it in his head. Dean being Dean, he decides to push his luck, “Hey, Cas.”

            Cas sort of laughs in response while he shelves a couple paperbacks. “How are you,… Dee?” Dean tries to hold in his laughter, he really does, but a few chuckles escape and Cas’ cheeks redden.

            “Yeah, I suck at nicknames.” He rubs a hand across his face to hide his embarrassment and if those red ears poking out through his bedhead aren’t the cutest thing Dean’s seen…

            Cas recovers and his face fills with excitement as he turns to face Dean head on, ignoring the box of books at his feet. “So? Did ya like it?” Dean thinks he might be mocking him a bit but he answers honestly anyway.

            He almost whines when he replies, “I’m so _confused._ ” Cas’ smile is egging him on so he keeps going, “what the hell was the point? And why don’t I absolutely hate this Alex kid, anymore?”

            Cas actually laughs now. “What makes you think I’ve read it?” He raises his eyebrows and pins his teasing eyes on Dean.

            “ _Please_ tell me you have. I need to talk to _someone about this_. And you’re all book clerk-y and look like you stayed up reading last night instead of sleeping and then forgot to brush your hair,” and he’s rambling now, and probably seems like he’s insulting the man.

            To his surprise, Cas doesn’t take offense, instead he grins before putting on a worried expression. “Is it that obvious?” He breaks character though, “Alright, alright. I _have_ read it. Would you like to go get coffee and talk about it?” Cas is serious again, and now Dean’s palms are sweating in that totally gross way.

            Flirting was one thing, but going to coffee… “Don’t you have to finish your shift? I can’t really stick around ‘til the end of it.” It’s a cop out, and a bad one at that. But he’s a good liar, and Dean’s pretty sure Cas’ll buy it.

            “No need,” Cas retorts, “I know the owner.” Dean’s hears a weird inflection in Cas’ voice at that but he’d too busy trying to think up another excuse to comment on it.

            He wants to say no. He wants to say no _so bad._ But those deep, blue eyes are trained on him and he finds the four syllables slipping out without his consent: “Alright, where at?” And he’d take it back if that answering smile wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

            So he walks alongside Cas as he leads him to the “best place in the area. I swear, their tea is perfectly brewed.” Dean could care less about tea, but the rhythmic enthusiasm in Castiel’s hands as he talks about it make it hard for him to not keep asking him questions, even if he has no idea what Earl Grey is.

            The place is only two blocks away and their seated with a black coffee for Dean and a well-sugared tea for Cas. Dean tries to keep his eyes from widening as Cas empties packet after packet into the paper cup. He’d seen the man’s shirt inch up to reveal his hipbone when he’d reached for a napkin and it’s a mystery how he could be so slim when he drowns his tea in granulated sweetener.

            “…he was cured and then…”

            “…and that’s why they undid it so…”

            “…but why do I end up okay with the ending?”

            He can tell Cas is entertained by his enthusiasm, and Dean can admit he’s even a bit surprised the book’s affected him so much. “That’s the whole point of the book. If someone can’t _choose_ between good and evil then there is no _good.”_ Now Cas’ eyes are all lit up and his hands are back at their rapid waving with those long fingers and Dean almost forgets to listen for the answers he’s been waiting for. “…would argue that the lack of the possibility of a choice results in more of a thing than a person. Free will is what puts humans apart from everything else.”

            “Well, I guess that’s an idea that I can get behind.” Dean manages to respond, despite those piercing eyes focused directly on his own.

            Their beverages are long gone, and Dean finds himself wishing he’d drank his slower to have a reason to prolong his stay across the table from this pleasing, alluring creature. Castiel seems to have the same thought as he looks wistfully at their empty cups and that dreamy look returns the logic to Dean’s mind. This can’t become more than a flirtation, it can’t progress into something Dean will regret. It can’t be a repeat of the last time.

            His contemplation has him formulating his goodbye, and he can see that Cas knows his thoughts when he slowly slides his chair away from the table. “Well, I gotta get out of here. Thanks for clearing things up!” Cas looks sad. They always do.

            “Alright, Dean. Hope to see you in the store soon.” Cas is still sitting so Dean feels pretty awkward as he waves and walks toward the door and pushes to open it. And it doesn’t move. And he realizes the little sign instructing him to ‘pull’. And Cas is definitely smirking at him when he glances back in mortification, but it’s the good kind of smirk, the one that says ‘you’re adorable’ and not ‘it must be embarrassing to be you.’ So he smiles back as he rolls his eyes and _pulls_ the door open.


	3. Chapter 3

            He’s a glutton for punishment, he really is. Dean can’t help but miss that expressive face with seemingly ever-present stubble lining the jaw. He misses it so much, he can’t even wait until Sunday to see if Cas is working. Saturday morning he sneaks into the store, breaking his established pattern, and glances to see if a familiar dark-haired employee is behind the counter.

            God, is he in trouble. He is not allowed to pursue anything with this mysterious man, due to his own strict rules meant to prevent the past from repeating itself, and yet here he is, stalking him ( _again_ ) like a goddamn preteen girl. Yet, when he sees that bedhead looking back at him from behind the shallow counter, he can’t help but feel a short jolt of excitement shock the pit of his stomach when he sees that the man in question is in fact spending his precious Saturday in a bookstore instead of sleeping in like any normal person would. In all fairness though, Dean can’t really point fingers considering how he couldn’t even wait until noon before he gave up his Saturday morning to spy on said abnormal person.

            Cas had spied him, so there’s no use hiding in his regular spot. It probably isn’t much of a hiding space anymore, anyway.

            With Dean unsure of how it really happened, they end up back at the coffee shop Cas had taken him to the week before.

It’s really unfair how those blue eyes make his head (it may have affected the downstairs one, too, if he was being honest) lose all semblance of logic thought and say ‘yes’ to anything the man suggests. The cruel bastard’s wearing a waistcoat for fuck’s sake. Dean’s helpless to refuse.

            This time, along with the well-sweetened tea, Cas also purchases a gigantic muffin with those sparkles of granulated sugar sprinkled across the top. Dean knows he’s lost as soon as Cas pays the barista, with no plan to how he’s going to survive the bookstore clerk depositing pieces of pastry into his delicate mouth.

            Suffice it to say, Dean’s relieved to have chosen a tighter pair of jeans in his morning haste, so he hopes that maybe his appreciation for the spectacle in front of him won’t be completely noticeable. While Cas lessens Dean’s self-control bit by pastry-baked bit, he mentions book titles he think Dean might enjoy, and Dean tries his best to actually listen to the words he is sure are being spoken between Cas’ tantalizing bites.

            Dean’s ears finally perk up when he realizes the last title Cas has mentioned is by Vonnegut and he’s actually read it. “ _Slaughterhouse-Five_? I know that one!” He relaxes visibly with a long sigh when Cas finally finishes that goddamn muffin. “I liked _Cat’s Cradle_ more though.” Cas nods in approval and Dean’s cheeks redden with the pride he feels at the acceptance.

            “So, what about you? What’s your favorite book?” He’s a little desperate to keep the animated man talking, missing when those hands and eyes calm from their excited state across the table. Cas’ face looks almost pained at his query, and he actually closes his eyes in discomfort or concentration. “What? What’d I say?”

            Cas opens his eyes and pushes a breath out in a whoosh, the air lightly reaching Dean’s face, and the cinnamon on his breath makes him a little dizzy. “That’s only the most frustrating question to answer because it’s damn near impossible to choose just one! I could give you ten of my favorites and it still wouldn’t feel sufficient.” The pained look is gone but he still looks a little exasperated, and those wide eyes full of frustration force a grin to Dean’s mouth.

            “Hey, sorry. Didn’t know it was such a loaded question…” He lifts his palms up in surrender, trying to keep his building laughter from escaping. “You’re even cuter when you’re frustrated.” And there it is, his mind refusing to stop his quick mouth before saying the first thing that pops into his head. He’s too late to clamp his hand over his mouth and he knows his face must be far redder than the blush now brushing Cas’ cheeks. He hurries to fix it, “Sorry. That totally just slipped out…” But now Castiel is smiling and he’s kind if digging that embarrassed look…

            “You know, apologizing for a compliment sort of takes away from the sincerity.” His eyes are twinkling in amusement and Dean smiles back easily, although his heart drops a little at the prospect of Cas getting the wrong impression about his intentions. But he can’t take it back and it was true anyway. Plus it’s hard to regret anything that made Cas’ smile brighten up so completely. Still, he rubs his hands across his face, cursing his useless self-control. The next time he feels the need to comment on Cas’ perfect attributes or wants to accept an invitation to coffee, he _will_ maintain willpower and refuse.

            “So, how do you feel about meeting me for dinner tonight?” Cas wonders aloud lazily.

            “Great.”

_Jesus fucking Christ._

…

            He thought his lips were good, until he got ahold of his tongue. How does someone expertly move that muscle so agilely that he can’t even think about withholding the embarrassing sounds coming out of his mouth?

            In truthfulness, Cas had seemed kind of innocent. Castiel was a name of an _angel_ for goodness sake, as he learned at dinner somewhere between the breadsticks and the entrée. Dean’s pretty sure the reasoning behind it had to do with something about a religious mom or dad, though now, with Cas’ fingers nimbly shucking his button-up from its tucked spot within his waistband, he’s helpless to remember which.

            There’s nothing innocent about Cas now, with the filthy words flicking off of his tongue and the blue irises now hidden behind incredibly dilated pupils.

            “Fuck, Cas. Get back up here.” Those luscious lips had taken a break from his mouth to roam to contours of Dean’s now bare chest, and the sensation was almost too much, unless Dean wants this experience to be cut rather short before he even makes it out of his pants. “Dude, we gotta slow down.”

            He tugs on Cas’ hair, the mass of strands even messier now that Dean’s fingers have carded through it. When Cas relocates to the curves of Dean’s neck, he can’t resist grabbing hold of Cas’ hips and pushing them flush against his own, eliciting a delicious gasp and following moan from deep in Cas’ chest. “Oh my God,” Cas heaves below his breath.

            There is a small voice gnawing at the back of his mind, yelling at him to stop, but the hands and mouth on him are far too convincing for him to push the warm body away from him.

            Cas’ hips pick up their own rhythm against his, and he can’t help smacking his head up against the wall Cas pushed him up against and grinding out breathy whimpers. _It’s been too long,_ he thinks. He’d forgotten how sensitive his body was, especially with those graceful fingers dancing from spot to spot.  Cas had taken control like Dean was a teenage virgin about to get it on with his far more experienced boyfriend. He’d be embarrassed if Cas wasn’t _so_ _damn good at it._

But he’s getting too hot, too fast, and he can feel that white-hot heat rising in the base of his stomach so he’s got to do something before he comes in his pants and ruins the buildup. He pushes sharply against Cas shoulders to separate their groins for a moment, and he follows Cas with his mouth to keep their lips sandwiched together in a sloppy kiss. His fingers are a bit shaky when he unbuttons the top of Cas’ dress pants, but his nerves lessen when Cas moves his hands to do the same to him.

            They’re both without pants and Cas is pulling at the hem of Dean’s boxers before he realizes that Cas still has that god-awful paisley shirt on, so he races to solve that problem, making quick work of the plastic buttons (and only ripping one off accidentally in the process). Cas chuckles at his impatience into his shoulder and the deep sound curls down Dean’s spine delectably.

            When Dean finally pushes the fabric off of Cas’ sinewy shoulders, Cas manages to navigate them to a bedroom, presumably Cas’, with a minimal amount of stumbling, and Dean wastes no time before pushing the man down onto the mattress, following closely behind. He’s partaking in his discovery of the planes of Cas’ neck with his tongue, and there’s a gasp above his head and a whisper: “Oh _shit_ , Dean…” So he sucks on the spot right behind Cas’ earlobe, and the little whimpers uttered right next to his ear go straight to his dick, now painfully hard and seeking attention. Castiel seems to sense this at the same time that he does, and Dean feels a warm palm encircle him inside his boxers, Cas’ hands making lazy passes up and down his length.

            It’s way too good, but way too slow, and Dean’s hips buck without his permission, trying to increase the speed and friction. He quickly removes them both from their boxers and lines their cocks together, pushing Cas’ hand out of the way, and encircles both with his own. Then he’s free to set the pace, and when Cas’ breathing climbs and those intense eyes flutter closed in ecstasy, he lets it build, with the silky skin of Cas and his own palm to push him higher.

            He can’t resist brushing his lips against Cas’ kiss-swollen ones, then across his eyelids before he lifts his head and closes his own eyes as he feels the heat overtake him. He can feel Cas’ stomach come up to meet him as his back arches, and he knows he’s right there with him.

            Two more thrusts and he’s there, and he has the presence of mind to palm Cas until he catches up. When both of them have thoroughly sticky abdomens, Dean finally lets himself collapse on top of Cas, mindful of Cas’ elbows and knees on his way down.

            The skin on Cas’ chest is flushed, and warm, and it makes it way too hard for Dean to want to move, to leave before he starts cuddling that pliant body beneath him. He can barely feel Cas’ fingers grazing up and down his spine lightly, and he can already feel his eyelids fluttering. He’s gotta get out of here before he falls asleep like he know he’s going to.

            _But he’s so nice and so_ hot _and anything involving what just happened can’t end badly_. He’s trying to talk himself out of leaving, he knows. _But it started exactly the same way with Benny, and look how_ that _turned out._ There it is, the memory that always keeps him from asking for that cute guy’s number, or flirting with the sexy receptionist at his dentist’s office, and, like a charm, it gives him the motivation to push his body up and gracelessly get off of Cas.

            Cas follows his warmth as he gets up, propping himself up on his elbows to watch as Dean wipes his stomach off with some tissues. Dean resolutely ignores his gaze until he’s clean and has to make an exit, and when he does meet eyes with the man, it’s hard to keep his promise to himself. Cas’ hair is everywhere, his cheeks are pink from the exertion and the blue in his eyes are visible again around his pupils, and dammit, if it doesn’t paint the picture for the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He can tell that Cas is waiting for him to speak from his raised eyebrow, his mouth slightly pursed in question.

            He doesn’t want this to be just another one-night stand, and that’s exactly why it has to be. If he didn’t actually _like_ the guy everything would be perfect, but naturally, the guy is perfect and far to enticing for his own good, especially with the curious look on his face.

            “I… I gotta go, Cas. Sorry.” Cas’ face immediately falls in dejection and Dean wants to take it back, wants to take it back so bad, but instead he leaves the room to search for the rest of his clothes. He hears the bedroom door close when he’s buttoning his shirt and he gets out of there before he feels the need to go apologize some more.


End file.
